The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

15

A fortnight later when Guy and Georgie moved into Angel’s Reach, all the removal men were whistling ‘Rock Star’ which now topped the UK as well as the American charts.

Guy, who took a week off work, masterminded the entire operation. Georgie drifted about getting in everyone’s way and going into poetic ecstasies over the lushness of the Rutshire spring. Blackthorn was breaking in dazzling white waves over the brightening green fields. On the first morning they were woken before dawn by the birds. Georgie had never seen so many lambs jumping in the fields or daffodils in a halo round their very own lake. A singer-songwriter could not but be gay in such a jocund company.

Euphoria, however, soon gave way to panic as she realized she’d lost Act One of her musical Ant and Cleo in the move. She daren’t tell Guy as he’d insist on helping her look, and there were all sorts of old love letters and the odd recent one in her boxes of papers which she didn’t want him to find. In the excitement of having a Number One record, she’d also agreed to deliver the new album by Christmas.

‘I’ll never get it done in time,’ she wailed to Guy, who was putting up some rather startling abstracts in the kitchen. The sink was still blocked with flowers wishing them luck in their new home, which Georgie would never get round to arranging.

Putting down his hammer, Guy took Georgie in his arms.

‘Larry’s just rung to say he’s going to bring in some whizz-kid producer to remix and revamp a lot of your old songs, so you’ll only have to write half a dozen or so new ones. It’s so restful here, you’ll do them in your sleep.’

‘No good if I can’t sleep,’ mumbled Georgie fretfully into Guy’s chest.

Having not arranged the making of a single curtain to fit the vast Angel’s Reach windows, she was getting increasingly irritated at being woken by the sun and the bloody birds at five-thirty in the morning.

So Guy, who knew where everything was, unearthed some swirling blue, olive and purple William Morris curtains which had hung in the house in Hampstead and charmed Kitty Rannaldini, who’d left a dozen new-laid eggs in the porch on their first morning, into letting them down.

As Kitty had promised to return the curtains as soon as possible, Guy, who felt sorry for her rattling around in that huge, supposedly haunted house, had invited her over for a late lunch on the Friday after they moved in. Following this, they would all drive over to the end-of-term concert at Bagley Hall, where Georgie’s and Guy’s younger daughter, Flora, and Kitty’s stepchildren, Wolfie and Natasha, were pupils.

Georgie, who’d been failing to work, hugged Kitty in delight as she staggered through the front door, the curtains in her arms.

‘Oh, you are kind! Put them down on the hall chair. Oh dear, you’re wearing a skirt — I was hoping to get away with jeans.’

Although Kitty had never received any affection from her stepdaughter, she felt she ought to support her at the concert because Rannaldini was still away. She had put on a compost-brown suit with a full skirt, which had once looked marvellous on Hermione, but which did nothing for Kitty’s figure or colouring. She had made it worse by trying to add the feminine touches of a pottery flower-brooch and a frilly white Tricel shirt.

‘Guy’s bound to bully me into changing,’ moaned Georgie. ‘Let’s go and murder a huge drink. Don’t worry, Guy’s driving. We’ll need to be pissed to sit through all those Merry Peasants and out-of-tune fiddles.’

Kitty followed her into a kitchen which had just been charmingly redecorated with a cornflower-blue tiled floor, white walls, primrose-yellow surfaces, blue-and-white plates and framed family photographs with blue mounts among Guy’s abstracts on the walls.

‘Ow, it’s so fresh and pretty,’ marvelled Kitty.

‘Guy’s taste,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s awfully clever.’

The kitchen was also surprisingly tidy, except for a large tabby cat with orange eyes, who sprawled most unhygienically, Kitty thought, across a big scrubbed table. She was frightened of animals, particularly of the Rottweilers which guarded Rannaldini, and The Prince of Darkness, the vicious black steeplechaser, who, now the National Hunt Season was over, roamed the fields terrorizing any rambler who ventured on to Rannaldini’s land.

‘What’s he called?’ Kitty tried to be polite, as the cat bopped Georgie with a fat paw as she passed.

‘Charity,’ said Georgie. ‘It’s Guy’s cat. He adores her. Flora chose the name, so we could all say, “Daddy does a tremendous amount for Charity”. And he does. He’s already joined the Best-Kept Village Committee, and he popped down to say hallo to the vicar this morning. He should have been back hours ago.’

‘It all looks lovely.’ Kitty admired the crocus-yellow walls in the hall.

‘And I’ve found a cleaner, thank God, a Mrs Piggot,’ said Georgie. Then, seeing Kitty’s wary look, ‘I’m not sure how hot she is on cleaning, but she’s ace on gossip. She’s already told me the vicar’s a bit of a “puff”.’

She’s so attractive, thought Kitty wistfully, even with her dark red hair going greasy, and last night’s mascara smudged under her eyes, and a split in her jeans where they’d lost a battle with her spreading hips.

Forcing a large Bacardi and Coke on Kitty, Georgie bore her upstairs to a bedroom so large and high that even the massive still-unmade four-poster looked like a child’s cot. Blushing, Kitty averted her eyes from a damp patch on the bottom sheet. Crumpling the duvet was a large basset-hound.

‘This is Dinsdale,’ said Georgie, screwing up the basset’s jowly face, gazing into his bloodshot eyes and kissing him on the nose. ‘The one thing that can be relied on to look worse than me in the morning. Now, let’s look at these curtains. Goodness, you’ve done them well. Although they’re not really bedroomy, I’ve never been very good with flowered chintz. Let’s put them up.’

In no time Kitty found herself standing in her stockinged feet, acutely ashamed of her fat ankles, amid the clutter of Georgie’s dressing table, as she perilously hooked the curtains on to a big brass rail.

‘A bloody girlfriend rang me this morning’ — Georgie gazed moodily at the long blond tresses of the willows lining the lake — ‘saying wasn’t I worried about all those bimbos and separated women in London, waiting to seduce Guy while I’m down here. Guy of all people! He’s so stuffy about people having affaires. Then she said, “Do watch the drink, it gets to you in the country.”’ Georgie took a great slug of her Bacardi.

‘I’m a bit pissed off with Marigold,’ she went on, glancing across at The Grange which was in deep shadow. ‘Apart from flowers when we moved in — some rather awful mauve gladioli — I’ve hardly heard a word. She’s having problems with Larry. Nikki’s proving even more difficult to give up than smoking. He should try Nikki’s hypnotist again, and Nikki intends to take him to the cleaners. Funny when she always forgot to take his suits there when she was living with him. Now she’s never off the telephone screaming abuse at Larry, and dropping the telephone if Marigold answers.

‘And Lysander’s never off the telephone from Cheshire (dropping it natch, when Larry picks it up), offering to fly down and whisk Marigold away, which must be tempting. I didn’t really talk to him at the Rock Star launch, but he was faint-making.’

‘Gorgeous,’ sighed Kitty, remembering how Lysander had come over to kiss her hallo/goodbye as he was leaving the party. ‘There, I fink that’s OK.’

‘Looks marvellous,’ said Georgie drawing the curtains and plunging them into such total darkness that Kitty nearly fell off the dressing table. ‘We must pay you. No, don’t be silly. Let’s have another drink, then I must wash my hair.’

I’m obviously not going to get any lunch, thought Kitty, which was probably a good thing. She’d totally failed to go on a diet for Rannaldini’s return tomorrow.

‘Just as I expected, they look terrific,’ said a deep, carrying voice. ‘Why am I always saying, “You’re a brick, Kitty”?’

Guy looked so handsome that, as he put out a warm, strong hand to help her down, and then kissed her cheek, Kitty wished she looked less shiny from her exertions, and hastily fumbled for her high-heeled shoes.

‘What kept you?’ snapped Georgie, tugging the elastic band out of her hair.

‘Frog-spawn in the village pond, blue-and-white violets on the bank, primroses like day-old chicks. It was such a beautiful day, I walked. I suppose you haven’t remembered to put on the potatoes, Panda?’

‘Hell, I forgot,’ sighed Georgie. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I’m not really hungry.’

‘Well, Kitty and I are,’ said Guy, ‘which is why I bought smoked salmon, pâté and vine leaves at The Apple Tree. It’s such a sophisticated shop. I arranged for us to have an account there.’

‘Which means Flora will chalk up fags and booze,’ said Georgie.

‘She must be told not to,’ said Guy sharply. ‘There was a list for ordering your hot cross buns. That’s what I call a proper village shop. I can’t believe it’s Easter in a fortnight.’

‘Ow, I love Easter,’ said Kitty. ‘Somehow you can’t wait for Jesus to rise from the dead and walk barefooted in the white dew among the daffodils.’

Then she blushed scarlet as Georgie said rather mockingly: ‘Dinsdale loves Easter, too, because it means chocolate. How was the vicar? Mrs Piggot says he’s gay.’

‘I had coffee with him and his wife,’ said Guy, who disapproved of gossip. ‘They were charming.’

‘Mrs Piggot says he’s a piss-artist,’ went on Georgie.

‘Takes one to know one,’ said Guy dismissively. ‘The gin’s dropped three inches since she’s been cleaning for you.’

‘I must wash my hair,’ said Georgie.

‘You haven’t got time,’ said Guy flatly. ‘You’ve asked Kitty to lunch. It’s already three o’clock and we’ve got to leave by four to get decent seats.’

‘The concert doesn’t start till five.’

‘And the rush-hour starts at four on Fridays in the country, and Flora’s singing a solo. We must be on time, Panda.’

Georgie looked mutinous. She was a celebrity. Everyone would be gazing at her. She couldn’t have dirty hair.

Reading her thoughts, Guy said, ‘You always look lovely, Panda.’

What a wonderful husband, thought Kitty enviously, kind and concerned but so firm like a Danielle Steel hero. ‘I don’t need any din — I mean lunch,’ she stammered.

A certain row was averted by the telephone. Georgie’s work in the last week had been constantly interrupted by the Press ringing up to ask how she was adjusting to the country, or by demands to go on television or the radio, all of which had been turned down by Guy.

‘My wife has shut herself away with a December deadline,’ he was saying briskly. ‘Well, I can answer that one. Dogs mostly.’

‘Who was that? What did they want to know?’ asked Georgie fretfully.

‘The Scorpion. What do you wear in bed?’

‘And you said, “Dogs”?’ Georgie started to laugh. ‘I do love you. People are going to think I’m even more of a slut than I am.’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Guy. ‘As we’ve only time for a sandwich now and it’s Flora’s first night in Paradise, I’ll take you all out to The Heavenly Host this evening.’

‘Perfect,’ said Georgie, ‘as a thank-you present for the curtains.’

‘I can’t,’ sighed Kitty, suppressing a simultaneous shiver of terror and longing, ‘Rannaldini’s flying in first fing tomorrow. I must see everyfink’s perfect.’